ZZZl 


3(n  jEemoriam 


jWemorial  Celebration 

OF   THE 

SIXTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE 
BIRTH  OF 


emin  iSootI) 


HELD   IN  THE 

MADISON  SQUARE  GARDEN  CONCERT  HALL 

NOVEMBER  THE   THIRTEENTH 
MDCCCXCIII 

BY 

THE    PLAYERS 


Jinprmiatur 


Pt^72'^ 


^^T  a  meeting  of  the  Board  of  Directors  of  The  Players,  held 
\o^  *^"  Monday,  the  9th  of  October,  1893,  at  the  Club  House, 
i6Gramercy  Park,  New  York,  it  was  "Resolved,  that  in 
the  opinion  of  this  Board  it  is  fitting  that  the  anniversary  of  the 
birthday  of  our  eminent  Founder,  Mr.  Edwin  Booth,  should  this 
year  be  marked  in  some  special  manner,  and  that  the  President 
of  the  Club  is  hereby  authorized  to  appoint  a  committee  of  twelve 
members,  with  power  to  add  to  their  number,  to  arrange  for  a 
public  meeting  on  the  13th  of  November,  at  which  appropriate 
exercises  in  memory  of  Mr,  Booth  shall  be  held." 


134 


GENERAL   COMMITTEE 


A.  M.  Palmer,  Chairman 
John  Malone,  Secretary 


Henry  Codman  Potter 
T.  B.  Aldrich 
E.  C.  Stedman 
William  Bispham 
Charles  E.  Carryl 
Stephen  H.  Olin 
Joseph  F.  Daly 
Chauncey  M.  Depew 
Daniel  Frohman 
R.  W.  Gilder 
Elbridge  T.  Gerry 
A.  S.  Hewitt 
Laurence  Hutton 
J.  Henry  Harper 
A.  Hayman 
Barton  Hill 
Carroll  Beckwith 
Augustus  St.  Gaudens 
W.  J.  LeMoyne 
Parke  Godwin 


Henry  Irving 
Brander  Matthews 
F.  F.  Mack  AY 
John  D.  Crimmins 
Horace  Porter 
James  F.  Ruggles 
Sol  Smith  Russell 
E.  H.  Sothern 
Frank  W.  Sanger 
Louis  Aldrich 
Charles  Scribner 
Charles  S.  Smith 

E.  S.  Willard 
Stanford  White 
Francis  Wilson 
W.  E.  D.  Scott 

F.  HoPKiNSON  Smith 
Thomas  J.  McKee 
Stuart  Robson 
George  E.  Woodberry 


Francis  J.  Quinlan 


SUB-COMMITTEES 

ON    RECEPTION 

Frank  W.  Sanger,  Chairman 

James  F.  Ruggles  W.  H.  Crompton 

William  Bispham  Evert  Jansen  Wendell 

Daniel  Frohman  Nelson  Wheatcroft 

John  Malone  Francis  Wilson 

Charles  Pope  A.  H.  Canby 

Franklin  Sargent  Louis  Aldrich 

Beaumont  Smith  Henry  Miller 

Charles  B.  Welles  Charles  Harbury 

Albert  H.  Bruning  A.  Hayman. 

ON  printing  and  invitations 
Charles  E.  Carryl,  Chairman 
William  Bispham  Joseph  F.  Daly 

Stephen  H,  Olin  E.  H.  Sothern 

ON  decoration 
Stanford  White,  Chairman 
Carroll  Beckwith  Augustus  St.  Gaudens 

Louis  Aldrich  F.  Hopkinson  Smith 

Francis  Wilson 

on  speakers 
E.  C.  Stedman,  Chairman 
R.  W.  Gilder  F.  F.  Mackay 

on  music 
W.  E.  D.  Scott,  Chairman 
Francis  Wilson  John  Malone 

A.  Hayman 


^^oor  ///(////,  sw(Wf    •  /  r//f<f' . 

f'<>//f  '    U>s  c/zU'cr  /"J  -r,  /(S-j-  > . 
(^■^  n^n^f.'^o/t  f^^yf/f/ff/c  -Jff/f^c//  ( o/f<<^// ■  yfff//, 

ff/ //(t/j  //(f-s/  ////^rr  (p'f'/{u-A' , 

yr.)  ^ 


Cl)e  j&rogramme 


31n  fl^emomm 

EDWIN  BOOTH 


Madison  Square  Garden  Concert  Hall 
Novembei'  13th  1893 


THE    PROGRAMME 


Dead  March  from  "Saul" 

(Used  by  Mr.  Booth  in  Hamlet) 


Ha  fide/ 


Introductory  Address 


Joseph  Jefferson 


III 


Commemorative  Address 


Parke  Godwin 


IV 


Overture — Phantasie  "Hamlet" 


Tschaikowshy 


Hlegy 


George  E.  Woodberry 


THE   PROGRAMME 


VI 


Nocturne    "Midsummer  Night's  Dream"   Mendelssohn 


VII 


Address 


TOMMASO  SaLVINI 


VIII 

Translation  of  Signor  Salvini's  Address 

Read  by  Henry  Miller 


IX 


Address 


Henry  Irving 


X 


Slumber  Music  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  Gounod 


Music  by  the  New  York  Symphony  Orchestra 

Walter  Damrosch,  Director 
13 


Ct)e  :aDDresses 


3JntrDtJuctorp  ^tiDress 

JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 

^^Z^  becomes  my  duty  to  present  to  this  assembly  the  distin- 
"al  guished  speakers  of  the  hour.  You  will  hear  an  elegy 
--^^  from  Mr.  Woodberry ;  a  commemorative  address  will  be 
spoken  by  Mr.  Parke  Godwin ;  a  translation  of  Signor  Salvini's 
address  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  Mr.  Henry  Miller.  In  addi- 
tion to  this,  there  will  be  words  of  praise  spoken  for  the  one 
whom  we  mourn,  by  two  of  his  histrionic  brothers  from  across 
the  sea.  They  have  acted  with  him,  upon  the  same  stage. 
They  have  revealed  their  superb  art  with  him.  Those  who 
have  been  fortunate  enough  to  witness  these  scenes  have  indeed 
something  to  remember.  Possibly  it  will  be  gratifying  to  you, 
as  it  is  to  his  brother  actors  in  America,  and  as  it  is  to  me,  to 
know  that  those  gentlemen  are  to  speak  of  him.  It  attests  that 
he  not  only  left  his  indelible  mark  here,  but  his  impress  upon 
other  shores  as  well.  I  need  scarcely  say  to  you  that  those 
distinguished  actors  are  Tommaso  Salvini  and  Henry  Irving. 

Signor  Salvini  has  requested  me  to  say  that  it  has  been  im- 
possible for  him  to  memorize  that  which  he  has  written,  and 
that  he  will,  of  necessity,  be  compelled  to  read,  instead  of  de- 
livering it. 

And  here  it  would  seem  that  my  duty  ends.     But  how  can  I 

17 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

leave  this  place  without  telling  you  how  closely  allied  I  was,  in 
friendship,  to  Edwin  Booth.  We  were  boys  together.  He  was 
but  sixteen  years  of  age  when  I  first  met  him — the  sweetest 
nature  and  the  most  noble  face  1  ever  looked  upon.  His  splendid 
social  and  dramatic  career  was  marked  by  me  from  its  beginning 
to  its  close.  1  trust  I  am  not  pressing  too  closely  upon  his  early 
domestic  life,  when  I  say  I  was  the  confidant  between  him  and 
the  sweet  lady  to  whom  he  gave  his  first  love — was  cognizant  of 
his  youthful  courtship,  his  early  marriage  and  the  bereavement 
that  followed  after.  1  have  acted  with  him  upon  the  stage  and 
rambled  with  him  through  the  woods.  We  shared  our  youthful 
joys  together,  and  in  after  years  he  leaned  upon  my  arm,  in  the 
autumn  of  his  sweet  life,  when  broken  down  by  illness  and 
overwork. 

It  was  but  little  more  than  a  year  ago  that  we  strolled  to- 
gether, upon  the  seashore,  and  he  spoke  with  strange  cheerfulness 
of  his  approaching  end;  and  if  I  remember  his  thoughts  and 
words  aright,  he  considered  no  man  happy  until  he  could  enjoy 
the  successes  of  his  enemies.  Surely  this  was  an  elevated  condi- 
tion for  one  who  was  about  to  step  across  the  threshold  from 
this  world  to  the  next. 

We  are  all  well  acquainted  with  Edwin  Booth's  public  career, 
but  his  private  charities  were  only  revealed  to  his  nearest  friends, 
and  even  these  he  would  have  concealed  from  all  eyes  had  it 
been  possible. 

May  I  mention  one  ?  When  he  returned  to  San  Francisco, 
after  a  twenty  years'  absence,  he  discovered  the  abode  of  an  old 
lady  who  had  acted  with  him  in  the  years  gone  by.  He  found 
her  in  poverty,  and  his  charitable  hand  surrounded  her  with 
every  comfort  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

Another:  Over  forty  years  ago  his  father,  one  of  the  great 
tragedians  of  the  world,  came  to  act  in  the  city  of  Charleston, 
South  Carolina.     I   was  the  boy  stage-manager  of  the   theatre 

i8 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

there.  His  father  was  ill.  I  called  on  him  to  see  if  1  could  do 
anything.  1  found  the  elder  Booth  lying  upon  a  sofa,  attended 
by  his  son.  They  were  not  at  a  hotel;  they  were  living  at  the 
house  of  an  old  friend.  I  saw  them  under  this  hospitable  roof 
together.  Thirty  years  after,  the  unfortunate  city  of  Charleston 
was  shaken  to  its  very  center  by  a  terrible  earthquake,  and  that 
same  house,  with  hundreds  of  others,  was  crushed  to  earth  and 
the  inmates  injured  and  ruined.  Before  the  fallen  telegraph  wires 
had  been  lifted  an  hour  a  message  of  comfort  to  that  afflicted 
family  was  flashed  over  the  wires  by  Edwin  Booth,  with  a  splen- 
did gift  that  placed  them  beyond  reach  of  want. 

About  five  minutes  ago,  just  before  I  entered  this  room — the 
occurrence  is  so  recent  that  I  feel  bound  to  relate  it — I  was  told 
that  an  old  servant  of  Edwin  Booth's,  who  had  attended  him 
many  years,  hearing  of  this  ceremony,  had  come  all  the  way  from 
Richmond  to  be  present.  1  need  not  say  that  she  received  a 
ticket  of  admission  and  had  every  courtesy  shown  her. 

But  I  now  must  close,  for  1  feel  that  I  have  been  trespassing 
upon  the  time  of  others,  and  in  doing  so,  1  can  only  ask  of  you 
that  in  which  I  will  join — a  wrapt  attention  to  the  words  you 
may  hear. 


19 


II 

Commemorative  ;atit)ress* 

PARKE    GODWIN 

Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen  of  The  Players: 

(^^^T  was  but  a  few  months  since  I  was  asked  to  speak  some 
'^l  commemorative  words  of  a  dear  friend  deceased,  who 
^W'  was  a  most  distinguished  and  charming  ornament  of  our 
literature,  Mr.  George  William  Curtis;  and  it  is  to  me  a  most 
affecting  incident  that  the  last  time  I  saw  another  dear  friend — 
no  less  distinguished  and  charming  in  another  sphere — he  was 
reading  those  words  with  sympathetic  approval.  But  as  1  listened 
to  his  over-generous  appreciations  1  little  thought  how  soon  I 
should  be  asked  to  perform  the  same  melancholy  duty  in  respect 
to  himself.     1  refer,  of  course,  to  Edwin  Booth. 

The  name,  as  1  pronounce  it,  falters  upon  my  lips,  for  it  recalls 
many  hours  of  joy,  with  few  of  sorrow,  while  it  reminds  me  that 
he  is  gone  from  us  forever.  We  shall  no  more  see  that  fine  in- 
tellectual face  which  interpreted  with  so  much  beauty  and  truth 
the  grandest  creations  of  the  foremost  human  intellect;  we  shall 
hear  no  more  that  melodious  voice  which  added  a  new  music 
to  the  music  of  poetry,  whether  it  came  to  us  in  the  flute-like 
tones  of  the  sweet  south  breathing  upon  a  bank  of  violets,  or  like 
the    deep   organ-pipe   of  the   ocean    when   it   breaks    in  heavy 

*  Owing  to  a  want  of  time  some  passages  of  this  address  were  not  spoken,  and  are 
here  supplied  in  print. 


IN  MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

cadences  on  the  const;  he  will  lead  us  no  more  into  that  ideal 
realm,  whose  golden  portals  are  flung  wide  by  the  magic  of 
genius,  to  reveal  to  us  the  grand  figures  of  history  and  grander 
figures  than  history  has  ever  known,  men  of  heroic  mould  and 
colossal  passions  and  women  as  fair  and  lovely  as  the  women  of 
a  lover's  dreams,  whom  it  is  a  rapture  to  see,  as  it  would  be  an 
education  to  know;  and  we  shall  no  more  feel  the  grasp  of  the 
hand  whose  pulsations  were  ever  fresh  and  warm  from  the 
heart.  He  is  gone — gone  into  the  silent  land — and  how  im- 
penetrable and  still  it  is.  We  peer  into  its  darkness  and  the 
clouds  only  gather  and  thicken ;  we  call  to  its  people,  and  they 
answer  us  not  again,  and  we  are  left  to  a  faith  that  often  wavers 
and  a  hope  that  often  sinks;  but  as  we  walk  in  reverent  igno- 
rance backward  let  us  indulge  the  hope  and  cherish  the  faith  as 
better  for  us,  perhaps,  as  a  moral  discipline  than  any  clearer 
knowledge. 

You  will  not  expect  me,  in  this  brief  hour  of  communion,  to 
present  you  a  detailed  biography  of  Mr.  Booth,  or  any  elab- 
orate estimate  of  his  character  and  career:  those  are  themes  for  a 
more  deliberate  occasion,  and  we  can  only  glance  at  a  few  salient 
points  which  commend  him  to  public  remembrance.  It  would 
seem  as  if  he  had  been  dedicated  to  the  theatre  both  by  outward 
circumstances  and  inward  vocation.  If  it  cannot  be  said  of  him, 
as  our  venerable  and  genial  President  has  said  of  himself,  that  he 
was  almost  born  upon  the  stage,  it  may  be  said  of  him  that 
he  was  cradled  within  sound  of  its  plaudits,  and  nourished  upon 
some  of  its  noblest  traditions.  His  father,  Junius  Brutus  Booth, 
was  one  of  that  galaxy  of  actors  who  rose  on  the  sunset  of  Garrick, 
and  included  among  its  bright  particular  stars  the  Kembles,  Hen- 
derson, Cooke,  Young,  Cooper,  Kean  and  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Miss 
O'Neill.  He  was,  indeed,  a  formidable  rival  of  Kean,  to  whose 
jealousy  he  owed  the  signal  honor,  as  we  do  the  signal  advantage, 
of  his  transfer  from  the  metropolis  to  this  western  wilderness. 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

For  many  years  he  was  the  one  cometary  splendor  of  our  theatri- 
cal skies,  and  showed  the  way  to  a  host  of  luminaries  who  have 
since  dazzled  our  eves,  without  paling  his  effulgence.  For  if  the 
younger  sort  in  those  early  days  were  disposed  to  lose  themselves 
in  bursts  of  admiration  over  any  of  these,  the  older  heads 
would  simply  remark,  "  Ah,  yes!  very  well,  very  well;  but  have 
you  ever  seen  Booth?"  as  if  that  were  at  once  the  climax  and 
close  of  all  possible  criticism. 

Well,  it  is  among  my  earliest  recollections  to  have  seen  that 
meteor,  as  he  flashed  across  the  boards  of  the  old  Park  Theatre,  as 
Richard  or  Sir  Giles  or  Pescara,  when  I  was  too  young  to  be  criti- 
cal, but  not  too  young  to  receive  an  indelible  impression  of  his 
power  and  brilliancy.  Like  Burbage,  Garrick  and  Kean,  he  was 
small  but  of  a  compact  figure,  with  a  commanding  presence,  a 
most  expressive  face  and  great,  luminous  eyes  that  seemed  to 
be  set  on  fire  from  some  inner  volcanic  source.  His  voice  was 
less  liquid  than  that  of  his  son,  and  his  carriage  less  dignified 
and  graceful,  but  his  outbreaks  of  passion,  whether  of  rage  or 
pathos,  were  simply  titanic.  In  hearing  them  one  could  readily 
believe  the  stories  that  were  told  of  his  fellow  actors  stopping 
in  their  parts  to  gaze  upon  him  in  mute  amazement  and  awe. 

Edwin  Booth,  the  fourth  son  of  this  eccentric  genius, 
inherited  many  of  his  best  qualities,  and  added  to  them  others 
that  tempered  their  intensity  of  blaze  and  mellowed  the  excesses 
of  their  energy.  He  was  born  on  a  farm  near  Baltimore,  in  Mary- 
land, which  the  father  had  procured  as  a  retreat  from  the  glare 
and  the  bustle  of  the  footlights  ;  and  he  might  have  said,  with 
more  truth,  perhaps,  than  Owen  Glendower,  that, 

"  At  my  birth 

The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes " 

for  he  came  into  the  world  in  November  of  1833,  during  that  me- 
teoric shower  of  the  13th,  which  passed  as  phenomenal  into  the 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

annals  of  astronomy.  I  remember  it  distinctly,  when  we  stu- 
dents of  Princeton  rushed  out  into  the  night  to  see  the  sky,  from 
zenith  to  horizon,  on  every  side,  a  sea  of  streaming  flame,  which 
recalled  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome,  "  A  little  ere  the 
mightiest  Julius  fell,"  when 

' '  Stars  with  trains  of  fire  and  dews  of  blood 
Disastered  tiie  sun, " 

but  they  were  deemed  "the  precursors  of  fierce  events,"  while 
these  in  the  milder  superstition  of  the  negroes  augured  a  bril- 
liant destiny. 

More  important  to  the  new-comer  than  these  exhalations  was 
that  grand  drop  of  sunshine,  the  farm,  where  his  limbs  were  nour- 
ished by  the  fresh  juices  of  the  earth,  his  lungs  expanded  by  the 
winds,  and  his  imagination  kindled  by  the  shapes  and  shadows 
of  the  darkling  wood.  His  education  there  was  elementary  and 
limited — a  little  while  at  a  lady's  school,  another  little  while  under 
a  foreign  teacher,  who  taught  him  the  violin,  while  the  negroes 
around  taught  him  the  banjo,  and  a  less  while  if  any  at  a  higher 
academy.  Doubtless  the  father's  presence  was  something  of  an 
education;  for  he  was  a  scholar  who  read  a  great  deal — an  expert 
linguist — at  least,  he  could  present  French  parts  to  French  audi- 
ences in  their  native  tongue — and  a  gentleman  of  taste,  who  lined 
his  walls  with  pictures  and  books.  But  any  education  there  would 
have  been  irregular,  considering  the  habit  he  had  of  carrying  some 
of  his  children  on  his  theatrical  tours.  Edwin  told  me  that  he  re- 
membered being  taken,  when  he  was  but  five  or  six  years  old, 
behind  the  scenes,  to  await  the  exit  of  his  father,  who  would 
then  catch  him  in  his  arms,  caress  him  and  toss  him  in  the  air, 
repeating  some  nursery  tale  or  song,  as  a  mode  of  relieving  the 
tension  of  his  nerves. 

Under  these  influences  he  naturally  aspired  to  the  stage,  and 
a  playfellow  of  his  boyhood,  who  remembers  him  as  a  curly- 

23 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

haired,  bright-eyed,  handsome  lad,  recalls  his  enthusiasm  in  that 
direction;  but  he  always  insisted  that  he  would  only  play  the 
villains,  who  had  much  to  do  and  to  say  for  themselves,  while  he 
despised  the  parts  of  lovers,  whom  he  regarded  as  milksops.  In 
that  the  incipient  tragedian  spoke.  But  the  father  was  opposed 
to  his  children  going  upon  the  stage,  not  because  he  underesti- 
mated his  profession,  but  because  he  doubted  their  capacity  for 
it.  And  once  in  reply  to  a  remonstrance,  he  petulantly  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  let  them  play  the  banjo  between  the  acts." 

Edwin's  first  appearance,  in  1849,  when  he  was  scarcely  sev- 
enteen, was  by  accident — the  f^iilure  of  a  friend  whose  part  as 
Tressel,  in  Colley  Gibber's  mutilation  of  Richard  III.,  he  assumed, 
and  the  same  companion,  who  was  present,  reports  that  while 
he  carried  himself  with  self-possession  and  dignity  he  was  in- 
audible at  the  middle  of  the  pit.  The  eminent  Rufus  Choate,  a 
warm  admirer  of  the  father,  was  heard  to  remark  on  that  occa- 
sion "that  it  was  a  great  pity  that  eminent  men  should  have 
such  mediocre  children."  Edwin,  however,  persevered,  and 
got  himself  regularly  enlisted  in  the  stock  company  at  the  re- 
munerative salary  of  six  dollars  a  week,  which  he  was  glad  to 
get  whenever  he  could.  The  parental  objection  seems  soon  to 
have  disappeared,  for  he  was  pushed  into  a  first  part  by  the 
father  himself,  who  refused  in  1850  to  appear  in  Richard,  when 
he  was  announced  for  it,  and  insisted  that  Edwin  should  take 
his  place.  This  was  at  the  old  National  Theatre  in  this  city, 
which  became  the  Chatham  Street  Chapel,  where  in  later  years  I 
saw  an  Abolition  riot  that  was  a  good  deal  livelier  than  any  play. 
One  can  easily  fancy  what  an  ordeal  it  must  have  been  for  a 
youth  of  eighteen  to  be  substituted  for  the  most  famous  actor  of 
the  day.  At  first  he  was  received  with  some  murmurs,  but 
gradually  won  approval,  and  at  the  end  was  called  before  the 
curtain.  He  was  a  bit  elated  by  his  own  success,  but  in  after 
years  said  that  it  was  a  mere  boyish  imitation  of  his  father,  and 

24 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

execrable  at  that.    It,  however,  settled  his  career,  and  he  became 
a  Thespian  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

But  his  novitiate,  or  apprenticeship,  passed  on  the  outskirts 
of  civilization,  was  a  rough  one,  beset  with  drudgery,  doubt  and 
disaster.  California  in  those  days  lay  like  a  luminous  golden 
haze  on  our  western  horizon,  and  thither  many  men  turned  in 
pursuit  of  fortune  or  fame.  Among  them  the  father  and  son 
crossed  the  pestilential  isthmus  in  1852  in  high  hopes  of  suc- 
cess, but  destined  to  encounter  a  great  deal  of  hardship  and  vicis- 
situde. The  father  soon  abandoned  San  Francisco  for  New 
Orleans,  and  died  on  his  way  north,  leaving  the  son  behind  him 
to  battle  against  the  world  for  himself.  In  the  larger  cities  on 
the  coast  Edwin  did  tolerably  well,  but  his  adventures  among  the 
mining  camps  of  the  foothills,  as  told  by  one  of  his  companions, 
were  full  of  grotesque  yet  painful  incidents.  They  take  us  back 
to  the  very  days  of  Shakespeare,  when  the  licensed  companies, 
driven  from  the  metropolis  by  the  plague,  which  often  carried  off 
more  than  one-fifth  of  the  inhabitants,  rambled  through  towns 
and  villages,  to  exhibit  their  half-contraband  wares,  in  the 
granges  of  farmers,  in  the  back  yards  of  inns  or  in  booths  on  the 
open  plain ;  but  their  experiences  must  have  been  luxurious  com- 
pared to  those  which  gave  to  Edwin  Booth  his  earliest  lessons. 
What  with  imprisonment  in  mountain  burgs  isolated  by  snow 
and  threatened  with  starvation;  with  long  tramps  of  thirty  or 
fifty  miles  through  slush  and  mud;  with  the  cooking  of  their  own 
food  or  the  mending  of  their  own  clothes;  with  performances  on 
boards  laid  across  the  billiard  tables  of  saloons  or  on  the  trunks 
of  fallen  trees;  with  a  free  discharge  of  pistols  now  and  then  in 
the  midst  of  some  grand  scene  of  heroism  or  love;  and  with  a 
final  return  to  the  coast  so  utterly  penniless  as  to  render  a  resort 
to  negro  farces  or  a  local  travesty  a  necessary  alternative  to  hope- 
less want,  his  entrance  upon  his  career  can  not  be  said  to  have 
been  either  encouraging  or  cheerful. 

35 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

Nor  was  the  outcome  much  better  of  a  voyage  he  made  with  a 
transient  company  to  the  islands  of  the  South  Seas,  as  far  off  then 
as  the  Antipodes  now  and  almost  quite  as  unknown.  For  what 
reason  they  went,  unless  it  was  to  confirm  a  prophecy  of  Shakes- 
peare that  "eyes  not  yet  created  should  o'er  read  his  gentle  verse," 
it  is  difficult  to  say;  but  they  played  in  Australia,  Samoa  and 
Hawaii,  sometimes  before  royal  courts  which  probably  did  not 
understand  a  word  of  what  they  uttered,  but  more  often  to  a 
frieze  and  background  of  dusky  natives  in  full  paradisaic  costume 
and  intermittent  purses.  This  was  in  1854.  On  the  return  to 
California,  where  an  accomplished  lady,  Mrs.  Forrest,  had  opened 
a  successful  theatre,  the  light  began  to  dawn  upon  the  youthful 
stroller,  and  he  was  enabled  to  show  the  mettle  that  was  in 
him,  and  by  a  few  astonishing  hits  to  gather  the  means  of  getting 
back  to  the  East. 

These  six  novitiate  years  on  the  frontiers  of  civilization,  and 
acting  in  companies  picked  from  the  roadside,  and  to  audiences 
not  at  all  exacting  or  refined  in  their  demands,  were  years  rather 
of  drudgery  and  of  crude  and  careless  work  than  of  education  or 
discipline.  They  were  years  of  apprenticeship  and  required  se- 
vere labor  and  endurance,  but  did  not  impart  the  nicer  qualities 
of  culture.  Yet  they  were  not  wholly  fruitless.  He  acquired  by 
them  the  mere  mechanical  tricks  of  his  trade.  They  familiarized 
him  with  the  scene,  developed  his  voice,  infused  self-confidence, 
and  perhaps  awakened  a  higher  ambition.  On  his  return  to 
the  East  in  1856,  arduous  trials  awaited  him  there,  which  proved 
however,  both  educative  and  disciplinary.  They  opened  his  eyes 
to  the  defects  of  his  old  imitative  and  traditional  methods,  and 
threw  him  back  upon  native  original  methods,  and  his  better 
judgment.  Deficient  in  early  cultivation,  and  misled  by  the 
accepted  models  of  the  times,  he  had  to  unlearn  much  that  he  had 
learned,  and  to  learn  much  that  he  did  not  know.  He  did  not  leap 
to  the  top  at  once— nobody  ever  does — but  had  to  climb  to  it, 

26 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

through  thickets  and  thorns,  with  an  occasional  tumble  on  the 
rocks.  Even  after  he  had  ventured  an  appeal  to  the  cultivated  taste 
of  Boston,  and  been  approved,  a  foreign  actress  with  whom  he 
played  refused  to  go  on  because  of  his  ungainly  and  awkward 
ways.  In  contrast  is  the  fact  that  when  he  played  with  Miss  Cush- 
man  in  Macbeth  she  differed  so  widely  from  his  refined  and  intel- 
lectual conception  of  the  character  as  to  beg  him  to  ' '  remember  that 
Macbeth  was  the  great  ancestor  of  all  the  Bowery  villains."  But 
Mr.  Booth  was  not  too  conceited  or  too  indifferent  to  learn  ;  he  read 
widely  and  carefully;  he  observed  constantly  and  closely  ;  and  he 
was  wise  enough  to  put  aside  his  faults  when  they  were  discovered 
to  him,  even  when  they  were  pointed  out  by  unfriendly  criticism. 
Perhaps  the  acquaintanceship  that  he  formed  at  this  time  here 
in  New  York  with  a  considerable  number  of  young  artists  and 
literary  men  (now  past  masters  in  fame),  who  had  been  attracted 
to  him  by  his  rare  modesty  and  unquestionable  genius,  may 
have  helped  to  awaken  his  ambition  for  the  highest  places. 

He  began,  however,  at  the  bottom,  with  the  study  of  details. 
He  recalled  that  Garrick,  who  to  a  mind  that  attracted  Burke, 
Johnson,  Goldsmith  and  Reynolds  added  accomplishments  that 
fascinated  the  multitude,  was  a  most  sedulous  student  in  courts, 
on  the  streets,  in  asylums,  and  booths,  of  features,  gestures, 
walk  and  tone;  that  Kean,  apparently  the  most  impulsive  actor 
that  had  ever  appeared,  yet  when  preparing  for  Lear  had  practiced 
before  a  glass,  night  after  night,  demanding  repeated  rehearsals, 
and  even  marking  his  positions,  his  recoils  and  advances,  on  the 
stage  in  chalk,  and  he  followed  their  examples.  Anybody  who 
will  read  his  notes  to  Furness's  Variorum  edition  of  Othello  will 
remark  the  importance  he  attached  to  every  movement,  every 
expression  of  face,  every  toneof  the  voice.  Even  his  own  perform- 
ances were  constant  objects  of  observation  with  a  view  to  their 
improvement.  Once  when  1  praised  him  highly  on  his  Macbeth, 
of  which  I  had  formed  conceptions,  derived  from  the  performance 

27 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

of  Macready,  with  whom,  next  to  Werner,  it  was  his  best,  he 
replied:  "  It  is  only  a  study,  but  1  think  I  can  make  something  of 
it  yet."  At  another  time,  happening  into  his  room  about  noon, 
I  found  him  prostrate  on  the  sofa,  half  out  of  breath,  and  covered 
with  perspiration,  and  exclaimed,  "Not  ill,  1  hope"  ;  and  he  re- 
plied: "No;  it  is  that  abominable  speech.  I  have  been  practic- 
ing it  all  the  morning.  I  have  shouted  it  and  screeched  it.  I 
have  roared  it  and  mumbled  it,  and  whispered  it,  but  it  will  not 
come  right."  None  the  less,  I  observed  afterwards  that  this 
very  speech  was  so  far  right  as  to  bring  down  a  triple  bob  major 
of  applause. 

This  attention  to  details  seems,  perhaps,  mechanical,  and 
it  would  be  mechanical  if  regarded  as  an  end  alone,  and  not 
a  means;  but  it  is  no  more  mechanical  than  the  painter's  study 
of  his  chalk  drawing,  from  which  he  never  deviates  and  yet 
fills  out  with  all  the  glory  of  color  and  form.  It  is  no  more 
mechanical  than  the  metres  and  rhythms  the  poet  observes  in 
order  to  reach  the  heights  of  poetic  beauty  and  grandeur;  it  is 
no  more  mechanical  than  the  inexorable  laws  of  counter- 
point which  the  musician  obeys  if  he  would  delight  the  world 
with  the  loveliness  of  a  chorus  in  Lohengrin,  or  with  the  sublime, 
cherubic,  heavenly  harmonies  of  a  concerto  in  C  minor.  Genius 
is,  of  course,  the  main  thing;  its  intuitions  and  sympathies  are  the 
prime  movers,  the  breath  of  life,  the  source  of  all  grand  effects; 
but  genius  itself  can  only  work  by  instruments,  and  when  it 
mounts  its  winged  Pegasus,  or  drives  the  coursers  of  the  sun,  it 
must  still  guide  its  steeds  by  snaffle  and  bit.  Mr.  Booth  had  the 
genius,  but  he  had  no  less  the  judgment,  the  taste  and  the  will 
to  put  an  end  to  its  mere  curvetings  and  prancings,  and  to 
direct  it  toward  its  triumphal  goals. 

Mr.  Booth's  range  of  impersonation  during  these  later  six  years 
of  journey  work,  when  he  began  to  be  recognized  as  "  the  hope 
of  the  living  drama"  (to  use  Barrett's  phrase) — but  not  yet  its  full 

28 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

realization — was  quite  broad,  comprising  both  comic  and  tragic 
characters,  some  thirty  in  all.  But  he  was  more  effective  in 
tragedy  than  comedy,  though  not  deficient  in  the  latter.  Those 
of  you  who  saw  his  Benedick,  his  Petruchio  and  the  lighter 
scenes  of  Ruy  Bias  and  Don  Csesar  de  Bazan,  will  remember  the 
extreme  delicacy  and  grace  of  his  comic  delineations,  which  never 
degenerated  into  farce  or  buffoonery.  If  at  times,  in  private  life, 
among  intimate  friends,  he  was,  like  Yorick,  "  a  fellow  of  infinite 
jest,"  the  humor  which  opens  fountains  of  tears  seemed  to  be 
more  suited  to  his  habitual  temperament  and  tone  of  thought  than 
that  which  ripples  the  face  with  smiles.  As  he  grew  older  and 
more  experienced  he  gravitated  by  a  sort  of  native  affinity  towards 
the  grander  and  more  severe  creations  of  Shakespeare — Lear, 
Hamlet,  Macbeth,  the  two  Richards,  Othello,  lago,  Brutus, 
Cassius,  Antony,  and  Wolsey, — but  not,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  Coriolanus  or  the  Egyptian  Antony.  Now  and  then 
he  strayed  into  other  fields  and  gave  us  masterly  representations 
of  Richelieu,  Pescara,  Sir  Giles  and  Bertuccio,  and  yet  he  seems  to 
have  avoided,  purposely,  Virginius,  Damon,  Pizarro,  and  the 
Gladiator,  as  perhaps  a  little  too  sentimentally  ad  captandtim  for 
the  true  artist.  It  was  to  Shakespeare  he  mainly  aspired,  and 
through  him  won  the  place,  which  he  held  for  thirty  years,  of 
the  foremost  American  actor.  He  had  many  worthy  rivals,  few, 
if  any,  equals;  certainly  no  superiors.  His  most  formidable  com- 
petitor, Mr.  Edwin  Forrest,  for  whom  he  was  partly  named, 
a  superb  and  impressive  performer,  was,  through  age  and  infirm- 
ity, falling  into  "  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf"  when  he  was  in  the 
prime  of  vigor  and  bloom.  It  may  be  that  Mr.  Forrest's  growing 
fondness  for  certain  native  tragedies,  in  which  declamation  took 
the  place  of  poetry,  or  a  cut-and-dried  type  of  character  that  of 
real  nature,  may  have  separated  himself  somewhat  from  the  cur- 
rents in  which  aesthetic  judgment  was  beginning  to  run. 

It  is  the  highest  eulogy  one  can  pronounce  upon  an  English 

29 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

actor  to  say  that  his  masterpieces  of  performance  were  the  master- 
pieces of  Shakespeare's  creation,  for  they  imply  more  than  the 
ordinary  requirements  of  a  good  performer.  These  are  manifold 
and  of  a  high  order,  physical,  intellectual,  emotional  and  volitional, 
and  these  Mr.  Booth  possessed  in  a  large  measure,  and  he  im- 
proved them  by  study  and  self-discipline.  Small  in  stature,  he  was 
yet  compact  and  well-proportioned  in  build,  and  he  carried  him- 
self with  a  rare  dignity  and  grace,  so  that  his  poses  were  always 
statuesque  and  his  motions  like  the  wave  of  the  bending  corn. 
His  mobile  features,  lighted  by  large  lustrous  eyes,  made  his  face 
not  merely  handsome,  but  exceedingly  expressive;  while  his 
voice,  clear  as  a  bell,  and  loud  as  a  trumpet,  ran  through  the 
whole  gamut  of  vocal  utterance,  marrying  sweetness  to  sonor- 
ousness of  sound  without  a  jar.  But  to  these  mere  outer  gifts 
he  joined  rapidity  and  ease  of  emotional  excitement,  and,  more  im- 
portant than  the  rest,  a  depth  and  breadth  of  intelligence  which 
together  enabled  him  to  apprehend  the  most  subtle  as  well  as  far- 
reaching  thought  of  his  author,  and  to  respond  to  his  sentiment  as 
the  musical  chord  does  to  the  pulsations  of  the  air. 

His  eminence  in  the  Shakespeare  circle  was  due  to  his  posses- 
sion of  the  latter  qualities.  The  great  Master  differs  from  all  other 
dramatic  writers  in  many  respects,  but  in  two  respects  particularly, 
which  put  to  the  final  test  the  powers  of  the  actor.  The  first  of 
these  is  his  marvelous  insight  into  what  Tennyson  called  "The 
abysmal  deeps  of  personality."  Other  writers  are  apt  to  delineate 
their  personages  from  the  outside,  as  embodying  solely  some  im- 
perious passion,  or  as  charged  with  some  one  transcendent  mis- 
sion, which  is  to  be  presented,  as  the  cannon  ball  flies,  in  an  un- 
deviating  line.  Among  the  ancients,  for  example,  no  one  can  mis- 
take in  /Eschylus  as  to  what  Agamemnon,  Antigone,  or  Orestes 
has  to  do,  or  how  it  is  to  be  done;  amid  the  pomp  of  the  language 
the  way  is  always  clear.  Even  among  the  more  romantic  moderns, 
no  one  disputes  as  to  what  Karl  Moor,  Don  Carlos,  Egmont,  Her- 

30 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

nani,  or  Triboulet  means ;  nearly  all  actors  would  present  them  in 
the  same  way.  But  Shakespeare's  persons  are  not  so  easily  grasped, 
not  because  they  are  purposely  or  bunglingly  obscure,  but  because 
they  are  at  once  so  very  deep  and  so  very  broad.  In  other  words, 
while  most  writers  write  from  the  surface  Shakespeare  writes  from 
the  inmost  center  outward  to  the  periphery,  where  he  touches 
life  on  every  side.  His  characters,  therefore,  are  so  involved  in  the 
infinite  intricacies  of  inward  motive  and  caprice,  and  so  bound 
up  with  the  incessant  complexities  and  cross-play  of  outward  cir- 
cumstances that  they  must  be  studied  closely  and  time  and  again 
to  learn  what  they  are.  Nobody  gets  them  at  a  glance.  They  are 
too  profound  to  be  fathomed  by  the  eye  alone,  and  too  many- 
sided  to  be  taken  in  by  any  single  sympathy.  Besides,  while  they 
are  such  complete  and  consistent  individualities,  growing  from 
youth  to  age,  that  one  has  told  of  the  girlhood  of  Shakespeare's 
heroines,  and  another  of  the  after-wedded  life  of  Benedick  and 
Beatrice,  of  Imogen  and  Posthumus,  of  Isabella  and  the  Duke, 
they  are  yet  types  of  permanent  and  universal  humanity,  and  to 
be  interpreted,  as  the  living  man  is,  by  a  scale  which  widens  and 
deepens  as  our  own  hearts  and  minds  grow  in  experience  and 
insight.  Two  hundred  years  of  the  astutest  comment  have  not 
yet  indicated  their  full  significance. 

The  other  trait  of  the  great  Master,  an  actor  should  al- 
ways bear  in  mind,  is  the  exuberance  of  his  poetic  nature,  which 
exudes  in  words,  diction,  rhythm,  scene,  personage  and  story. 
Goethe  was  much  reproached  for  having  said  once  that  Shakes- 
peare was  much  more  of  a  poet  than  he  was  of  a  dramatist,  by 
which  he  merely  meant  that  the  poet  was  primary  and  predom- 
inant while  the  playwright  was  secondary.  In  other  words, 
poetry  is  the  very  atmosphere  in  which  he  lives.  He  nowhere 
restricts  himself,  as  Henry  James  accuses  the  great  French  authors 
of  doing,  to  the  multitudinous  glaring  outside  life  of  the  senses. 
He  was  as  open  as  ever  man  was  to  every  skyey  and  every  earthy 

31 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

influence,  but  through  all  these  he  saw  "the  deeper,  stronger, 
subtler  inward  life,  the  wonderful  adventures  of  the  soul." 
Whatever  theme  he  touches,  though  in  itself  commonplace  and 
unpleasing,  he  steeps  in  the  color  of  his  fancy,  and  he  scatters 
the  color  over  all  surrounding  objects.  Like  a  bird,  he  dips  his 
wings  in  fetid  pools  only  to  disperse  the  water-drops  in  showers 
of  pearls.  Whatever  story  he  tells  or  passion  he  portrays,  though 
in  themselves  repellant  or  even  hideous,  he  purges  them  of  their 
grossness  and  lifts  them  into  an  air  of  ideal  freshness.  Like 
Niagara — which  in  its  maddest  plunge  and  loudest  roar  still  waves 
the  iridescent  banner  of  its  rainbow,  and  still  sends  up  to  the  skies 
its  mist-columns  of  diamonds — he  raises  his  scenes,  which  in 
their  literal  nakedness  might  shock  us  with  horror,  up  to 
the  purer  and  serener  heights  of  the  ideal,  where  i^schylus  not 
only  heard  the  groans  of  the  incestuous  king  and  saw  the  wild- 
eyed  furies  in  pursuit  of  Orestes,  but  heard,  too,  the  thunder-tones 
of  destiny  and  saw  the  dread  forms  of  the  immortals. 

Mr.  Booth  grew  to  be  keenly  apprehensive  of  the  character- 
istics of  the  Master,  and  studied  them  closely  and  brought  them 
out  as  he  best  could  into  more  and  more  distinctness  and  vivid- 
ness. His  representations,  as  he  advanced,  while  they  showed 
a  closer  analysis  of  character,  which  is  a  mark  of  thought,  con- 
veyed at  the  same  time  that  higher  ideal  value  which  is  the 
essence  of  poetry.  He  seemed  to  penetrate  more  and  more 
into  the  interior  significance  of  his  personages  by  discerning 
more  fully  what  was  universal  in  them  and  so  of  permanent 
interest  to  humanity.  Thus  his  King  Lear,  which  in  the  begin- 
ning was  the  traditional  King  Lear,  an  irascible  old  man  liable  to 
sudden  and  fearful  explosions  of  wrath,  and  who  did  many  fool- 
ish things,  gradually  became  the  type  of  imperious  arbitrary  will 
undermining  its  own  force,  dispersing  families  and  disrupting 
kingdoms  through  sheer  caprice,  and  an  exponent,  not  of  a  par- 
ticular history,  but  of  a  universal  truth  of  human  nature.      Thus 

32 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

Hamlet,  whom  he  once  wrote  of  as  an  "unbalanced  genius," 
was  raised  afterwards  to  the  perfection  of  manhood,  who, 
charged  with  an  imperative  duty  it  was  impossible  to  execute, 
fell  by  the  corrosive  and  destructive  action  of  his  own  thoughts 
into  distraction  and  madness,  and  brought  down  a  whole  beauti- 
ful world  with  his  own  ruin  amidst  a  sound  of  wrangling  bells. 
Thus  Macbeth,  on  the  surface  a  heartless  and  sanguinary  tyrant 
who  butchers  his  best  friends  and  deluges  his  estates  with  blood, 
is  shown  to  us  in  the  end  as  infinitely  more  than  that:  as  the  vic- 
tim of  that  irritable  imaginativeness  which,  dealing  with  the 
darker  powers,  whelms  reason,  nature,  conscience  and  affection 
in  a  vortex  of  hell-born  dreams. 

In  the  last  two  impersonations,  it  may  be  perhaps  well  to 
observe,  Mr.  Booth  was  assisted  by  a  peculiarity  of  his  own 
constitution,  which  lent  them  singular  truth  and  awesomeness. 
I  refer  to  his  openness  to  those  darker  and  more  mysterious 
aspects  of  life  which  have  been  called  the  night  side  of  nature. 
He  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  hidden,  subtle,  boding,  unfa- 
miliar influences  of  that  unknown  and  unfathomable  ocean  which 
rolls  on  the  outside  of  our  habitual  and  fixed  experiences.  He 
was  at  one  time  deeply  interested  in  certain  abnormal  phenomena 
which  are  called  spiritualism,  and,  indeed,  in  the  jargon  of  its 
adepts  he  was  considered  a  medium.  Certainly  he  could  tell 
some  strange  tales  now  and  then  of  his  unconscious  cerebral  ex- 
citements. But  the  only  practical  effect  they  had  upon  his  con- 
duct, so  far  as  I  could  observe,  was  to  deepen  the  awfulness  of 
his  representations  of  personages  who  had  walked  on  the  border 
lands  of  the  unseen.  His  Hamlet,  whatever  the  passion  or  occu- 
pation of  the  moment,  was  always  haunted  by  the  dread  vision 
that  came  to  him  on  the  ramparts  of  Elsinore,  and  Macbeth  was 
ever  accompanied  by  the  fatal  sisters  whose  supernatural  soliciting 
pushed  him  on  while  they  consoled  him  in  his  immeasurable 
atrocities. 

33 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

It  was  a  consequence  of  Mr.  Booth's  careful  study  of  his 
Shakespearian  parts  that  he  gradually  refined  his  modes  of  ren- 
dering them  out  of  the  old  boisterous,  objurgatory  and  detonat- 
ing style  into  one  more  gentle,  and  therefore,  as  I  think,  more  ar- 
tistic. He  was  at  no  period  deficient  in  force  and  intensity  of 
expression.  His  curses  in  Lear  fell  like  avalanches  from  Alpen 
heights  when  a  storm  is  on  the  hill;  his  alternations  from  joy 
to  rage  in  Shylock  throbbed  and  glowed  with  the  red-heat  of 
molten  iron;  the  lament  of  Othello  was  like  the  moan  of  an 
archangel  for  a  heaven  betrayed  and  lost,  ending  in  that  remorse- 
ful cry,  which  "shivered  to  the  tingling  stars;"  and  1  have 
heard  him  utter  the  simple  phrase  in  the  graveyard  scene, 
"What!  the  poor  Ophelia,"  with  such  heartbreaking  pathos 
that  whole  rows  of  women,  and  of  men  too,  took  to  their  hand- 
kerchiefs. But  he  never  found  it  necessary,  at  least  in  his  later 
days,  in  order  to  get  his  feeling  understood,  to  shriek  like  a  ma- 
niac or  to  howl  like  a  wounded  wolf.  He  had  taken  to  heart  what 
the  great  Master,  who  could  not  be  accused  of  tameness  and  frigid- 
ity, and  who  was  doubtless  as  good  a  critic  as  he  was  a  drama- 
tist, had  long  since  taught  us  in  "the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and 
whirlwind  of  passion,  to  beget  a  temperance  that  must  give  it 
smoothness." 

He  had  learned  in  particular  two  phases  of  emotional  expres- 
sion, which  1  do  not  suppose  were  original  with  him,  but  which 
are  very  important  and  require  the  utmost  skill  and  delicacy 
of  management.  The  first  may  be  called  the  ascending  phase 
of  emotion,  in  which  every  strong  passion  fosters  and  aggra- 
vates itself,  so  that,  beginning  on  a  low  level  of  excitement, 
it  rises  by  its  own  self-generated  vehemence,  to  a  violent  in- 
tensity. It  was  displayed  by  Mr.  Booth  in  several  passages  of 
Hamlet,  where,  in  spite  of  the  strongest  efforts  at  self-restraint, 
he  is  gradually  carried  away  by  the  movements  of  his  brain,  and 
finally  loses    himself   in    a    frenzy    that     passes    for    madness. 

34 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

The  Other  phase  of  expression  to  which  I  have  referred,  and 
which  may  be  called  the  descending  phase,  exhibits  a  towering 
passion  in  its  subsidence.  It  is  said  to  have  been  one  of  the 
master-strokes  of  Kean,  who,  though  fond  of  abrupt  transitions — 
that  is,  from  transports  of  frenzy  to  calmness  or  even  sportive- 
ness — was  yet  artist  enough  to  know  that  this  was  not  always 
natural,  and  so  at  times  came  down  from  his  extreme  heights 
by  gradations  of  fall,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  which  still  heave 
and  swell  when  the  tempest  is  wholly  past  away.  This  effect 
was  grandly  given  by  Mr.  Booth  in  Lear,  whose  tremendous  dis- 
charges of  anger  are  followed  by  sudden  returns  to  patience  and 
self-control,  when  his  voice  assumed  to  be  calm,  and  his  face 
appeared  to  be  smooth,  but  the  twitching  muscles  and  the  tremu- 
lous tones  gave  proof  that  the  passion  had  not  yet  vanished. 

It  should  always  be  borne  in  mind  that  it  is  not  the  aim  of  dra- 
matic art,  whether  in  authorship  or  representation,  to  bring  forth 
monsters,  either  fiends,  or  freaks,  or  wild  beasts.  It  presents  us 
human  beings,  swayed  even  to  madness  in  the  intensity  of  their 
passions,  but  still  human  beings.  Even  in  its  most  abnormal  de- 
partures from  the  human  type,  as  in  Caliban,  they  have  still 
many  touches  of  human  nature  in  them,  which  they  show,  if  in 
no  other  way,  by  speaking  its  language,  and  at  times  uttering 
the  most  exquisite  poetry.  The  drama,  as  Schiller  says,  "must 
unveil  crime  in  its  deformity,  and  place  it  before  the  eyes  of  men 
in  all  its  colossal  magnitude;  it  must  diligently  explore  its  dark 
snares  and  become  familiar  with  sentiments  at  the  wickedness  of 
which  the  soul  revolts";  but  in  doing  so  it  does  not  cut  itself 
loose  from  all  semblance  of  manhood.  Otherwise  its  personages 
would  excite,  not  pity  and  terror,  but  horror.  Richard,  lago, 
Shylock,  Macbeth,  do  diabolical  things,  but  they  are  none  the  less 
men,  perverted  by  evil,  hardened  by  crime,  wholly  bent  away 
from  goodness  and  truth,  and  yet  capable  of  both  goodness  and 
truth,  and  at  their  worst  exhibiting,  perhaps,  masterly  intellect, 

35 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

heroic   courage,    sublime    defiance,     strong    affection — are    like 
Milton's  fallen  angels,  "the  excess  of  glory  obscured." 

An  open  secret  of  Mr.  Booth's  success  was  the  high  concep- 
tion he  had  formed  and  cherished  of  the  dignity  and  usefulness  of 
the  theatrical  function.  Pained  at  times  by  the  perversions  of  it 
in  bad  hands,  he  was  yet  not  ashamed  of  his  profession ;  nor  did 
he  suppose,  as  Macready  appears  to  have  done  in  later  life,  that 
he  would  have  been  better  and  happier  in  some  other  walk.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  proud  of  it,  and  rejoiced  in  his  ability  to 
serve  it,  and  through  it,  the  highest  interests  of  the  public. 
He  was  not  insensible  of  its  degradations,  actual  and  possible, 
but  he  knew  that  it  is  precisely  those  things  in  our  human 
nature  which  fall  the  lowest  that  are  capable  of  the  highest.  He 
knew  that  dramatic  literature  is  the  highest  form  of  intellectual 
achievement,  and  that  the  stage  is  the  means  by  which  it  is  most 
vividly  interpreted  and  most  widely  diffused.  In  a  general  sense 
the  principal  aim  of  all  art  is  to  please,  but  we  should  remember 
that  that  pleasure  ranges  from  the  merest  trivial  amusement  of  the 
moment  to  that  which  Dryden  calls  noble  pleasure,  which  inter- 
ests alike  and  at  once  the  intellect,  the  conscience,  the  imagination, 
the  passions  and  the  sensibilities  in  their  finest  and  sweetest  exer- 
cises, and  leaves  traces  of  exaltation  that  go  sounding  through  the 
soul  for  ever.  Even  in  its  lightest  forms,  the  pleasure  produced 
by  the  histrionic  art  is  not  to  be  despised.  The  play— impulse, 
as  Schiller  calls  it,  in  which  it  originates,  and  which  gives 
rise  to  the  delicious  pranks  of  children  and  the  merry  sports 
and  pastimes  of  the  common  people,  is  that  instinct  of  human 
nature  which  lifts  it  out  of  the  hard  grind  of  necessity — 
whether  physical  or  moral — and  surrenders  it  to  the  joy  of 
a  disinterested  freedom.  Not  only  does  it  "ease  the  anguish 
of  the  torturing  hour,"  but  it  is  the  main  support — the  gener- 
ator and  the  regenerator — of  whatever  is  most  healthful  and 
wholesome  in  the  exercise  of  our  faculties.     In  common   par- 

36 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

lance,  we  name  it  recreation,  forgetting  often  that  recreation  is 
simply  re-creation — or  the  making  over  of  that  which  is  worn, 
and  not  something  fresh  and  new.  Talleyrand  used  to  say 
that  the  arrantest  nonsense  is  very  refreshing,  and  Shakespeare, 
in  one  of  his  eulogies  of  merriment,  asserts  that  it  both  relieves 
the  wear  and  the  woe  of  life,  and  cures  some  of  its  afflic- 
tions, in  this  he  anticipated  the  doctrine  of  modern  science, 
which  teaches  that  pleasurable  excitements  build  up  the  nervous 
system  and  maintain  it  in  health  and  growth,  while  depression, 
despondency,  or  sorrow — any  form  of  pain,  in  fact — wastes  it 
away,  and  ends  in  its  total  destruction.  Assuredly  we  all  of  us 
know  that  a  sound,  hearty  laugh  clears  the  cobwebs  from  the 
brain  and  elevates  the  whole  being  into  a  more  serene  and  invig- 
orating air.  But  if  that  be  true  of  our  lower  enjoyments  what 
shall  be  said  of  the  recuperative  power  of  the  higher  sort 
which  appeals  at  once  and  in  harmonious  union  to  those  lofty 
capacities  which  are  the  distinguishing  marks  of  humanity — 
which,  separating  man  from  every  other  form  of  existence,  make 
him  what  he  is,  the  crown  and  consummation  of  creation — the 
paragon  of  animals — the  beauty  of  the  world — and  infinitely 
grander  than  all  "this  brave  o'erhanging  firmament,"  with  its 
"  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire." 

Now,  dramatic  art,  as  I  have  said,  appropriates  to  itself  the  ex- 
cellences of  all  other  forms  of  art,  and  supplements  them  with  ex- 
cellences of  its  own.  It  abounds  in  that  prose  which  is  "full  of 
wise  saws  and  modern  instances";  its  naive  and  racy  songs 
furnish  the  best  specimens  of  lyric  enthusiasm;  it  rivals  the 
solemn  epic  in  the  grandeur  of  its  stories,  and,  not  satisfied  with 
speech,  it  calls  in  as  its  assistants  and  handmaids  the  imposing 
splendors  of  architecture  to  build  its  temples,  of  sculpture  and 
painting  to  adorn  them,  of  eloquence  to  add  charm  to  its  utter- 
ances, and  of  the  delicious  exhilarations  of  music,  to  bear  the  spirit 
on  harmonious  wings  to  elysian  homes.      Like  other  literature, 

37 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

it  rummages  the  ages  for  its  themes  ;  it  turns  over  the  dusty 
leaves  of  chronicle  and  annalist  for  its  persons,  filling  in  their 
gaps  of  forgetfulness ;  but,  more  than  this,  by  its  marvellous 
power  of  characterization,  it  clothes  the  skeletons  of  the  dead  past 
in  flesh  and  blood,  and  presents  them  to  us  in  their  very  habits  as 
they  lived.  A  thousand  buried  majesties  revisit  the  glimpses  of 
the  moon;  the  colossal  demigods  of  old  mythologies  that  helped 
to  shape  the  primal  chaos — the  noble  masters  of  antiquity,  whose 
words  have  given  law  to  the  arts  and  policies  of  all  future  time — 
the  chivalric  champions  of  the  oppressed  and  of  womanhood  in  the 
middle  ages — even  the  unknown  heroes  and  heroines  of  domestic 
life,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fantastic  little  tricksters  of  faery,  who 
win  our  loves,  revive,  and  we  are  made  acquainted  with  men 
grander  than  any  in  actual  history,  and  with  women  f^iirer  than 
our  visionary  seraphs,  and  lovelier  than  our  legendary  saints, 
in  that  they  are  real  women  breathing  thoughtful  breath. 

It  is  not  merely  the  defense,  it  is  the  justification,  nay,  it  is 
the  pre-eminent  glory  of  the  theatre,  that  it  is  the  great  popular 
interpreter  of  this  creative  inspiration — the  channel  through  which 
its  rare  and  exquisite  treasures  are  conveyed  to  the  minds  of  the 
people.  The  lofty  achievements  of  the  human  brain  and  heart,  in 
nearly  every  other  domain — its  great  poems,  its  great  histories, 
its  great  systems  of  thought,  its  great  pictures,  and  its  great  music, 
are  a  closed  book  to  the  masses.  They  are  richly  laden  argosies 
that  sail  on  the  unseen  ether  of  the  skies,  and  not  on  the  ordinary 
atmosphere.  Few  see  them  but  those  who  have  the  opulence 
and  the  leisure  to  climb  the  golden  step  to  the  stars.  They  are  an 
unknown  realm — and  how  sad  the  thought! — to  the  vast  majority 
of  mankind  even  in  the  most  cultivated  nations.  But  the  theatre 
brings  the  gold  and  the  jewels  of  its  Ophir  mines  of  genius  home 
to  the  bosom  of  nearly  every  class — one  might  add,  of  nearly  every 
individual.  It  is  the  one  institution  of  society  which  may  be  said 
to  be,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  popular.     Other  institutions 

38 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

touch  the  sensibilities,  or  tastes,  or  interests  and  rouse  the  souls  of 
selected  circles,  but  this  goes  directly  to  the  sensibilities  and 
rouses  the  souls  of  all.  Consider,  too,  how  incessant  and  wide 
are  its  influences.  Victor  Hugo  has  compared  it  to  the  ancient 
Tribune  whence  the  orators  fulmined  over  Greece,  and  to  the 
modern  Pulpit,  which  drops  its  heavenly  messages  in  "rills  of 
oily  eloquence,"  but  it  has  an  immense  advantage  over  either  of 
these  in  its  almost  unbroken  activity  through  space  as  well  as  in 
time.  Every  night  of  the  week,  in  nearly  every  town  and  city  of 
civilization,  it  is  telling  its  tales  and  teaching  its  lessons  of  good 
or  ill,  and  the  Press  alone  surpasses  it  in  the  immediate  reach  and 
constancy  of  its  work. 

And  what  is  that  work  ?  Nothing  less  than  the  whole 
sphere  of  human  relations,  which  is  precisely  the  sphere  of 
our  ethical  being.  It  deals  directly,  almost  exclusively,  with 
the  conduct  of  man  to  man,  and  morality  is  the  breath  of  its  life. 
It  is  essentially  a  moral  force,  a  tremendous  agency  for  good  or 
evil.  Scientists  tell  us  that  while  there  are  evidences  of  a  vast 
physical  order  in  the  external  world  there  are  no  evidences  of  a 
moral  order  there.  The  grand  forces  of  nature,  regardless  of  man 
or  his  desires,  drive  the  wheels  of  their  chariots  over  his  uni- 
verse axle-deep  in  blood.  Historians  tell  us  that  the  final  adjust- 
ments of  events,  the  rewards  of  good,  and  the  retributions  of 
evil,  are  far  apart  in  space,  remote  in  time,  and  seldom  observed, 
or  not  observed  in  the  end  by  men  who  saw  the  beginning;  but 
it  is  not  so  in  the  little  world  of  the  drama,  where  the  conse- 
quences of  conduct  are  near,  open,  and  swift.  Dramatic  art  con- 
trols the  seasons  of  its  own  harvests,  hangs  its  nemeses  on  the 
neck  of  its  events,  and  freights  the  lighting-flashes  of  its  auguries 
with  the  rattling  thunder-peals  of  their  fulfillment. 

Such  an  agency  is  not  to  be  neglected,  much  less  derided,  and 
especially  by  those  who  take  the  moral  and  religious  interests  of 
society  into  their  special  keeping;  nor  are  the  actual  conductors  of 

39 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

it  to  be  held  up  to  derision,  and  excluded  from  the  mercies  of  the 
all-merciful,  as  they  were  but  an  age  ago.  They  are  to  be  prized, 
as  others  are  prized,  by  the  faithful  discharge  of  their  function. 
If  their  shortcomings  in  the  past  have  been  lamentable,  which  of 
the  professions  shall  throw  the  first  stone  ?  None  the  less  let  us 
hold  them  to  their  responsibilities,  and  remind  them  constantly 
of  what  an  almost  omnipotent  means  of  human  elevation  they 
wield;  and,  as  in  the  early  days  of  the  beautiful  Grecian  culture, 
the  dramatists  revived  and  perpetuated  whatever  was  grand, 
awful  and  sublime  in  their  almost  forgotten  traditions;  as  in  the 
middle  age  the  Church,  the  mightiest  of  spiritual  forces,  still 
called  to  its  aid  the  Mysteries  which  brought  home  to  the 
common  people  whatever  was  lovely  and  holy  in  Hebrew  or 
Christian  legend,  so,  in  this  enlightened  Nineteenth  Century  shall 
we  not  demand  of  the  drama  that  it  shall  take  the  lead  in  all  the 
purifying,  strengthening,  broadening  and  elevating  tendencies 
which  make  a  progressive  civilization  ? 

It  was  Mr.  Booth's  conviction  of  the  real  possibilities  of  the 
stage  that  induced  him  to  work  for  its  improvement,  not  only  in 
the  parts  he  played,  but  in  all  its  adjuncts  and  accessories.  As 
far  back  as  i860,  when  he  was  the  manager  of  the  Winter  Garden 
Theatre,  following  the  example  of  Macready  and  the  younger 
Kean  in  England,  he  put  many  pieces  upon  the  stage  with  a 
degree  of  historical  accuracy  and  impressiveness  that  was  an 
education  to  our  playgoers,  and  led  the  way  in  which  our  later 
Wallacks,  Dalys  and  Palmers  have  creditably  followed. 

His  opulent  equipment  of  the  Winter  Garden  went  up  in 
flames,  but,  nothing  daunted,  he  soon  after  projected  a  theatre 
which  should  be  a  model  of  its  kind,  both  for  the  comfort  and 
safety  of  the  audience,  and  the  convenience  of  the  players.  It 
was  made  as  complete  as  it  could  be  in  every  respect,  with  the 
knowledge  and  resources  at  his  command.  Plays  were  produced 
with  an  accuracy  and  amplitude  of  artistic  device  that  pleased 

40 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

both  mind  and  eye.  Not  only  the  plays  in  which  he  took  part, 
but  those  in  which  others  appeared. 

That  enterprise,  in  spite  of  its  artistic  merits,  went  down  in 
bankruptcy,  as  the  former  had  gone  up  in  flame  ;  but  the  pro- 
jector of  it  was  not  disheartened.  Again  he  took  to  the  road; 
again  the  streams  of  Pactolus  flowed  into  his  pockets  ;  and  again, 
having  paid  the  last  penny  of  former  indebtedness,  he  bethought 
him,  not  of  himself,  but  of  his  fellows.  It  was  on  a  pleasant 
yachting  voyage  in  the  Summer  time,  with  chosen  friends,  loving 
and  beloved,  along  the  picturesque  coast  of  Maine,  where 
high  hills  peep  over  their  forests  of  greenery,  and  the  far  glance 
of  dancing  waves  shoot  back  the  bright  beams  of  the  sky,  that  he 
communicated  to  them  his  plans  for  an  institution  which,  let  us 
pray,  the  greediness  of  fire  will  not  consume  nor  the  maelstrom 
of  finance  absorb.  He  told  them  of  the  society,  now  called 
"The  Players,"  to  whose  gratitude  and  hospitality  we  owe  the 
splendid  assemblage  which  honors  this  hall  to-day.  He  gave  to 
it  all  his  available  funds ;  he  gave  to  it  the  companions  of  his  long 
silent  life — his  books;  and  he  gave  to  it  the  treasures  of  his  secret 
heart — his  pictures  and  his  relics.  His  desire  was  to  erect  a  home 
where  the  selected  members  of  his  profession  might  meet  with 
one  another,  and  with  the  representatives  of  other  professions,  in 
friendly  intercourse  and  on  terms  of  social  equality  and  reciprocal 
esteem. 

It  is  within  the  walls  of  its  sumptuous  edifice,  as  you  walk 
its  halls  and  corridors,  that  the  pictures  bring  back  to  the  eye 
the  celebrities  of  the  stage  whom  we  all  revere — and  some  of 
whom  have  found  a  place  in  England's  proudest  memorial  of  her 
honored  dead.  It  is  there  that  a  letter,  a  sword,  a  lock  of  hair,  or 
a  tatter  of  dress  restores  Garrick,  Kemble,  Kean,  Mrs.  Siddons 
almost  to  the  touch,  and  there  the  elder  Booth,  Cooke,  Cooper, 
Elliston,  Munden,  Forrest,  Wallack,  Gilbert,  Barnes,  Placide  and 
others  look  down  upon  you    in  genial  serenity.     As  one  sits 

41 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

there,  sometimes  in  a  kind  of  revery,  he  hears  the  tinkle  of  a  little 
bell  and  he  sees  the  curtain  rise,  and  then  a  whole  entrancing 
world  of  grace  and  splendor  exhales  like  a  glorious  vision,  it  is 
there  now  that  the  genius,  the  beauty,  the  distinction  of  the  city  is 
gathered  annually  to  lay  its  tributes  of  affection  and  respect  at  the 
feet  of  the  Founder,  whose  good  remembrance 

"  Lies  richer  in  their  thoughts  than  on  his  tomb." 

It  was  there  that  he  spent  his  last  hours,  in  communion  with 
friends  who  deemed  it  an  honor  to  be  admitted  to  his  confidence, 
and  there  his  gentle  spirit  took  its  way  to  the  welcomes  of  the 
good  and  great  made  perfect. 

Like  a  light  in  the  skies  he  has  now  passed  below  the  dews 
and  damps  of  the  horizon;  but  may  we  not  say  of  him  with  our 
earliest  of  poets : 

"■  That  the  soft  mem'ry  of  his  virtues  yet 
Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun  is  set." 

May  we  not  say  of  him,  as  of  the  good  Duncan,  that  "after  life's 
fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well,"  leaving  behind  him  no  rankling 
animosities,  no  unadjusted  wrongs,  no  bitter  remembrances,  only 
sorrow  and  a  grateful  sense  of  his  genius  and  goodness.  In  life, 
no  doubt,  he  had  his  enemies — who  has  not  ? — but  no  one  ever 
learned  that  fact  from  his  own  lips.  There  were  those,  perhaps, 
even  of  his  own  profession,  who  exaggerated  his  hereditary  traits 
into  personal  faults,  but  it  produced  no  bitter  resentment  in  his 
heart.  For  the  thirty  years  that  I  knew  him  with  more  or  less 
intimacy  I  never  heard  him  speak  an  unkind  word  of  any  human 
being.  Yet  he  was  as  unassuming  as  he  was  generous,  and  I 
may  add  that  during  that  long  interval  I  never  heard  him  speak 
unduly  of  himself,  or  of  himself  at  all  save  in  connection  with 
some  project  for  the  public  good. 

Affliction  fell  upon  him, — the  early  death  of  his  father — whom 
he  loved  and  honored— the  withering  of  that  fair  flower   now 

42 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

"  enskied  and  sainted,"  around  whose  being  the  tenderest  fibres 
of  his  heart  were  strung — that  great  public  calamity,  which  for  a 
moment  blotted  his  heaven  of  future  hope  and  happiness;  but 
these  misfortunes,  while  they  may  have  deepened  the  lines  of 
thought  on  his  forehead,  never  galled  his  heart  with  a  drop  of 
despair  or  pessimism.  Recovering  with  elastic  spirit  from  every 
blow,  he  kept  the  even  tenor  of  his  way  in  the  discharge  of  his 
duty,  as  he  conceived  it.  The  other  day,  in  taking  up  his  copy  of 
"  Macready's  Reminiscences,"  I  found  near  the  close,  where  the 
veteran  actor  expresses  dissatisfaction  with  his  life,  that  Mr.  Booth 
had  penciled  on  the  margin,  "What  would  this  man  have.? 
Blessed  with  education,  with  a  loving  family,  with  fame  and 
fortune  and  the  friendship  of  the  great,  he  ought  to  have  been 
supremely  happy."  Mr.  Booth  was  not  supremely  happy — few 
are;  but  he  enjoyed  life.  He  enjoyed  it  because  he  had  discov- 
ered that  true  secret  of  tranquillity  and  content — the  use  of  his 
faculties  and  his  fortune,  not  as  a  means  of  self-indulgence  or  os- 
tentation, but  for  the  furtherance  of  general  ends.  Scarcely  one 
of  his  more  intimate  friends  but  could  tell  you  of  some  dark  home 
brightened,  of  some  decayed  gentleman  or  gentlewoman  raised 
to  comfort  and  cheerfulness  by  his  unseen  but  timely  interven- 
tion. He  had  learned  the  deep  wisdom  of  that  epigram  of  Mar- 
tial, which  perhaps  he  had  never  read,  which  says  that  "What 
we  possess  and  try  to  keep  flies  away,  but  what  we  give  away 
remains  a  joyful  possession  forever."  It  was  for  this  his  friends 
not  only  admired  him,  but  loved  him  ;  and  it  was  for  this  the 
greater  public  mingled  with  its  admiration  of  the  artist  its  at- 
tachment to  the  man.  For,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  man  who 
had  passed  his  life  in  the  expression  of  simulated  sentiments 
was  in  his  own  life  the  sincerest  and  truest  of  men.  This  man, 
who,  like  a  nomad,  had  spent  his  days  in  wandering  over  the 
earth,  prized  above  all  things  else  the  retirement  and  seclusion  of 
the  home;  this  conspicuous  leader  of  a  profession  more  than  others 

43 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

exposed  to  temptation,  preserved  himself  as  pure  as  the  wind- 
sifted  snow  of  the  mountains;  and  he,  the  popular  idol,  who  had 
only  to  appear  upon  the  boards  to  awaken  round  upon  round  of 
rapturous  applause,  dreaded  notoriety,  shunned  the  crowd  and 
loved  to  be  alone  with  his  own  thoughts.  How  gentle  he  was  there 
I  cannot  tell  you — as  gentle  as  the  breeze  that  will  not  detach  the 
delicate  blossom  from  the  stem ;  nor  how  strong  he  was  in  his 
adherence  to  duty — as  strong  as  the  oak  that  no  blasts  from  the 
hills  can  pull  up  by  its  roots. 

Therefore  it  was  that  a  strong  personal  feeling  pervaded  his 
popularity.  Recall  those  final  days,  when  he  was  laid  upon  the 
couch  of  pain,  and  remember  how  eagerly  we  followed  the  bul- 
letins, rejoicing  when  they  were  favorable  and  sorrowing  when 
they  were  not  so.  Tried  skill  and  devoted  affection  were  gath- 
ered about  that  couch — the  affections  of  life-long  friends,  and  of 
one,  the  image  of  her  who  had  long  since  gone  to  prepare  his 
way;  but  neither  skill  nor  affection  could  delay  the  death-hour, 
and  when,  on  that  sweet,  soft  day  of  June,  as  light  and  warmth 
were  broadening  over  the  earth,  and  the  trees  had  put  on  a  fuller, 
and  richer  green,  it  was  announced  that  his  eyes  were  finally 
closed  on  all  this  brightness  and  beauty — how  instinctively 
we  exclaimed  with  Horatio,  bending  over  the  prostrate  form  of 
Hamlet,  "Now  cracks  a  noble  heart!"  and  as  the  big  tears 
flushed  our  eyes,  how  we  added  with  him:  "  Good-night,  sweet 
Prince!  And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest."  Indeed, 
may  we  not  repeat  it  here,  "Good-night,  sweet  Prince,"  and  as 
we  utter  it  may  we  not  hear  with  our  finer  ears  a  responsive 
echo,  floating  with  solemn  softness,  downward  from  the  heights, 
"  Good-night,  dear  friends,  God  bless  you  all;  good-night  !  " 


44 


Ill 

GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY 

j?ir  INGER  ye  here,  all  lovers  of  the  soul, 
jj^    Nor,  careful  of  our  grief,  too  far  remove 

From  the  last  rites  of  love! 
Bend  hither  your  sad  hearts,  no  more  to  flow 
With  deaths  of  ill-starred  kings  and  tears  of  time, 
Plucked  from  your  bosoms  by  a  feigned  woe; 
But  frorathe  living  fountain  learn  to  shed 
Some  drops  of  sorrow  for  the  player  dead. 
While  round  his  earth  dirges  of  sorrow  go! 

Who  mourn  him,  if  not  ye  he  taught  to  weep  ? 
Yours  are  the  hearts  he  sought,  the  hearts  he  won. 
This  solemn  hour  with  sad  observance  keep, 
O  living  throng,  felt  round  his  mortal  sleep 
With  man's  long  tribute  unto  greatness  gone! 
Ah,  not  as  o'er  the  violet  in  his  prime. 
For  him  sweet  pastoral  notes  and  mused  rhyme 
The  shroud  of  beauty  weave,  and  leave  him  so; 
But  honor's  breath  and  virtue's  pure  acclaim, 
Meeds  of  long  life,  guerdons  of  happy  fame. 
To  future  ages  shall  his  blazon  show. 
In  lowly  dust  abides  his  honored  head, 

45 


? 


IN    MHMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

But  in  the  thoughts  of  men  he  shall  aye  climb, 
Who  greatly  gave  his  life  to  noble  ends, 
And  in  himself  his  country's  honor  stored, 
And,  past  our  borders,  was  our  fame  abroad; 
Not  unlamented  he  to  night  descends. 
Who  with  the  people's  life  his  genius  blends; 
hinumerous  sorrow  and  unseen  farewell. 
And  what  the  heart  but  to  itself  doth  tell, 
Shall  be  his  passing-bell. 

The  wide  stage  darkens  with  such  rare  eclipse 
As  brings  the  hush  upon  all  breathing  lips; 
Yet  is  this  silence  one  that  doth  belong 
To  music,  and  this  shadow  unto  song. 
That  leads  us  up  again  to  heavenly  light. 
And  makes  fame  pure,  and  grants  immortal  right. 
Nor  shall  the  Muse's  ample  store  afford 
Less  than  her  flourished  laurel  for  his  shroud, 
Who  followed,  for  his  master  and  his  lord, 
Her  son,  on  whom  immortal  ages  crowd, — 
Him  who,  erewhile, — him,  too, — with  sorrow  loud 
And  Thames's  song,  was  to  his  silence  borne 
In  Stratford;  yet  again  she  bids  men  mourn 
Her  tragic  grave,  and  by  the  Atlantic  sea 
Hath  set  her  stone  of  perfect  memory. 
Nor  thou  the  last, — great  Mother  of  our  verse 
And  Avon's  source,  that  loudest  thy  fame  doth  sound. 
Who  laid  thy  emblems  on  his  sable  hearse — 
Honor  the  fellow  of  thy  master-mind. 
Who,  far  as  round  the  illumined  world  doth  reach 
The  large  dominion  of  thy  conquering  speech, 
Bore  England's  greatest  message  to  mankind ! 
To  him  once  more  let  all  men's  voices  roll. 
Though  the  loud  plaudit  fallen  to  low  lament; 

46 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

The  breath  of  praise  to  him  be,  mourning,  sent. 
From  city  and  continent 

And  every  soil  his  voice  made  Shakspeare's  ground; 
Yet  greatest  love  for  him  shall  here  be  found. 

For  first  of  men  born  ours  he  did  advance 
in  the  world's  front  our  title  to  the  crown. 
And  with  old  glory  blend  our  young  renown, 
In  tragedy  a  victor;  and  his  glance 
Knew  none  but  equals  on  that  ancient  ground, 
Yet  in  each  rival  there  a  kinsman  found, 
While  rolled  his  triumph  to  the  Danube's  bound. 
What  could  he  less,  inheriting  his  race, 
Ancestral  honor,  and  the  happy  breed 
That  from  old  Burbage  heired  the  players'  art, 
And  in  young  Garrick  treasured  up  the  seed, 
In  Kemble  majesty,  in  Kean  made  grace  ? 
The  masters  come  not  oft, 
Who  lighten  in  the  soul,  and  ride  aloft 
On  old  Imagination's  winged  sphere; 
But  he  was  native  there. 
And  could  that  orb  of  pale  dominion  steer, 
Who  bore  the  soul  of  Shakespeare  in  his  heart 
And  bodied  forth  his  world.     O  potent  art. 
Clothing  with  mortal  mold  the  poet's  thought, 
That  so  could  recreate 
The  beauty  of  dead  princes  and  their  state, 
And  all  that  glory  to  perdition  brought — 
Sorrows  of  song  !     O  noble  breast  o'erfraught. 
That  such  a  weight  of  perilous  stuff  could  carry. 
And  to  the  old  words  marry 
The  music  of  his  tongue,  his  princely  mien, 
And  beauty  like  the  Muses'  Mercury, 

That  like  an  antique  god  he  trod  the  scene, 

47 


IN   MEMORIAM— EDWIN   BOOTH 

And  every  motion  carved  him  where  he  stood 
Fit  for  eternity ! 

Nor  came  he  to  this  height  by  happy  chance; 
Nor  birth  nor  fortune  to  that  presence  thrust; 
But  wisest  labor  and  strict  governance. 
Lower  than  in  himself  he  dared  not  trust, 
But  his  dear  study  of  perfection  made, 
Refining  nature's  gifts  with  learning's  aid. 
The  scholar's  page  oft  lit  his  lonely  hour, 
Yet  spared  all  knowledge  alien  to  his  power; 
The  true  tradition,  wandering  from  its  source. 
Taught  by  his  memory,  found  its  ancient  course; 
Informed  with  mind  now  Shylock  shook  the  stage, 
And  subtly  tempered  burst  Lear's  awful  rage. 
And  more  he  brought  than  yet  had  ever  been 
To  plant  illusion  in  the  painted  scene. 
And  bade  the  arts  a  royal  tribute  pour 
To  make  the  pageant  wealthier  than  before; 
As  in  a  living  Rome  ran  Caesar's  blood, 
And  round  the  lovers  fair  Verona  stood; 
Yet  well  he  knew  the  action  to  maintain 
Against  the  scene,  that  else  were  laid  in  vain; 
Happy  who  first  had  learned,  though  hid  from  youth, 
What  Prosper  taught  him  from  the  buried  book, 
Whereon  the  brooding  eyes  of  genius  look, — 
The  way  unto  the  heart  is  simple  truth. 

Thus  did  he  mount  the  dais  of  the  throne. 
Thus  did  he  leap  into  the  royal  siege. 
And  filled  the  stage,  and  in  himself  summed  all. 
Hark  in  our  ears  the  poor  Fool's  lip-crushed  moan! 
Weep,  Bolingbroke!  he  weeps,  thy  crownless  liege! 
Mount,  Richard,  mount!  thy  bloody  murders  call! 
Alas,  our  eyes  have  seen, 

48 


IN  MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

As  if  no  Other  woe  than  this  had  been, 

The  heart-break  of  the  Moor, — and  heard,  behind, 

Of  frank  lago's  intellectual  stealth 

The  panther  footfall  in  the  generous  mind. 

How  oft  with  hearts  elate 

We  watched  the  Cardinal  play  the  match  with  fate 

While,  trembling,  shook  the  state 

More  than  his  age, — whose  mind,  a  kingdom's  wealth, 

Made  everything  but  innocence  his  tool, 

Daunted  the  throne  and  headlong  threw  the  fool! 

With  Cassius  did  we  plot,  with  Brutus  walk. 

O,  why  remember,  now  that  all  is  fled, 

How  deep  as  life  the  fond  illusion  spread 

Round  him,  who  now  is  dead. 

Till  we  with  Hamlet  seemed  to  live  and  talk! 

O  tender  soul  of  human  melancholy 

That  o'er  him  brooded  like  the  firmament! 

Thence  had  his  eyes  their  supernatural  fires 

And  his  deep  soul  its  element  of  night; 

Thence  had  he  felt  the  touch  of  great  thoughts  wholly, 

That  with  mortality  but  ill  consent, 

The  star-crost  spirit's  unconfined  desires. 

That  in  this  brief  breath  plumes  its  fiery  flight; 

And  on  his  brows  hung  ever  the  pale  might 

Of  intellectual  passion,  inward  bent. 

Musing  the  bounds  of  Nature's  continent. 

In  that  great  shadow  where  the  mind  aspires, 

With  flashes  beautiful  and  eloquent; 

There  love,  that  flies  abreast  with  thoughts  of  youth. 

And  glides,  a  splendor,  by  the  wings  of  truth. 

Over  the  luminous  vague  to  darkness  went, — 

Like  some  slow-dying  star  down  heaven's  pole. 

It  moves  o'er  earth's  blind  frame  and  man's  dark  soul, 

49 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

And  passes  out  of  sight, 
And  the  lone  soul  once  more  inurns  its  light. 
So  in  his  blood  the  poet's  passion  wrought, 
His  nature  from  within  dark  influence  lent, 
While  with  his  body,  there,  the  spirit  blent. 
And  stamped  the  changeling  of  creative  thought — 
The  soul  incarnate  in  its  mortal  bloom. 
The  infinite,  shut  in  how  little  room — 
The  word,  the  act, — no  more;  yet  thereof  made 
The  player  who  the  heart  of  Hamlet  played! 
Ah !  who  shall  e'er  forget  the  sweet,  grave  face, 
The  beauty  flowering  from  a  stately  race, 
The  mind  of  majesty,  the  heart  of  grace  ? 
How  like  himself  did  all  things  there  appear, 
And  hued  like  him!  over  whose  living  head 
Stood  the  dark  planet,  and  its  burden  shed — 
A  world  disordered,  a  distempered  sphere, 
Crooked  events,  and  roughness  everywhere — 
The  jar  of  Nature's  frame  since,  earthward  wheeled, 
First  with  nativity  the  stars  grew  sad. 
And  prescience  of  what  should  be  sorrow,  had : 
These  were  his  world — who  had  a  world  within 
Of  augury  that  bankrupts  Nature's  bond, 
A  power,  past  her  will,  not  from  her  source. 
Felt  in  the  mind,  with  lightnings  round  her  throne, 
Majestic  flames,  inheriting  her  gloom. 
Pale  splendors,  yet  with  power  to  illume 
Time's  buried  tract  and  reaches  of  the  tomb; 
There  reigns  the  spirit,  there  is  truly  known, 
In  whose  unclouded  sphere  doth  Nature  roll. 
Herself  an  image;  there,  by  shadows  shown, 
He  held  the  mirror  up  unto  the  soul. 
And  from  his  bosom  read  the  part  alone, 

50 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

The  infinite  of  man  within  him  sealed, 
And  played  himself — oh,  with  what  truth  exprest! 
He  plucked  the  mystery  from  the  Master's  breast, 
But,  ah,  what  mortal  plucks  it  from  his  own  ? 

Such  was  our  Hamlet,  whom  the  people  knew, 
A  soul  of  noble  breath,  sweet,  kind  and  true ; 
Our  flesh  and  blood,  yet  of  the  world  ideal. 
So  native  to  immortal  memory 
That  to  the  world  he  hardly  seems  to  die 
More  than  the  poet's  page,  where  buried  lie 
The  form  and  feature  of  eternity ; 
But  when  we  look  within,  what  spirits  there 
Move  in  the  silence  of  that  hallowed  air! 
He  in  the' mind  shall  his  black  mantle  wear. 
Pore  on  the  book  and  greet  the  players  dear. 
And  make  dead  Yorick  with  his  memory  fair. 
But,  ah,  for  us,  alas!  who  knew  him  near, 
Nearer  the  loss;  ah,  what  shall  yet  appear 
Of  all  he  was  ?    For  us  the  vacant  chair. 
For  us  the  vanished  presence  from  the  room. 
The  silent  bust,  the  portrait  hung  with  gloom — 
He  will  not  come,  not  come! 
Yet  doth  his  figure  linger  on  the  sense. 
And  Memory  her  sacred  relics  save 
Of  voice,  and  hand,  and  silent  influence, 
That  some  shall  carry  with  them  to  the  grave. 
No  more  beside  the  lighted  hearth  he  stands. 
Bringing  us  welcome  from  o'erflowing  hands — 
Our  host,  our  benefactor  and  our  friend. 
Faultless  in  all,  who  all  in  one  could  blend; 
Gracious,  with  something  of  old  reverence; 
Generous,  who  never  knew  the  gift  he  gave; 
Thoughtful,  who  for  the  least  himself  would  waive; 

51 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

How  oft  we  saw  him  in  the  evening  light, 

The  patient  sufferer  in  our  daily  sight! 

Here  was  his  home;  here  were  his  gathered  friends; 

Blest  is  the  life  that  in  such  friendship  ends! — 

Nor  further  looks  the  verse,  though  taught  to  see 

More  nigh  that  heart  of  noble  privacy, 

Bosom  of  perfect  trust,  from  guile  how  free, — 

An  open  soul,  with  reticence  refined — 

Yet  when  he  spoke  a  child  might  read  his  mind: 

Only  great  souls  have  such  simplicity. 

Cease,  flood  of  song,  thy  stream!  now  cease,  and  know 
Thy  silver  fountains  from  all  hearts  do  flow! 
Cease  now,  my  song,  and  learn  to  say  good-night 
To  him  whose  glory  lends  thy  stream  its  light! 
The  last  great  heir  of  the  majestic  stage 
Has  passed,  and  with  him  passes  a  great  age; 
Low  with  the  elders  lies  his  honored  head, 
And  in  one  voice  are  many  voices  dead. 
O  old  tradition,  crusted  with  great  names. 
Our  captain-jewels!  lo,  among  them  set. 
Booth's,  like  a  star!  look  you,  how  sweet  it  flames, 
And  with  the  luster  of  our  tears  still  wet! 
Farewell — farewell! — move,  sweet  soul,  to  thy  rest; 
Sleep  cloud  thy  eyes,  deep  sleep  be  in  thy  breast! 
Go,  noble  heart,  unto  our  sons  a  name. 
Through  all  men's  praises  to  eternal  fame! 
Move,  happy  spirit,  where  all  voices  cease — 
Through  our  love  go,  to  where  love's  name  is  peace! 


52 


0 


IV. 

zmxtss 

TOMMASO   SALVINI 

GGI  compiono  sessant'  anni'  che  la  luce  vide  nascere  un  gran 
cuore  ed  una  gran  mente.  Oggi  or  son  cinque  mesi  e 
sei  giorni  questa  mente  e  questo  cuore  si  spensero  in 
Edwin  Booth.  Tempo  addietro  non  pensavo  di  trovarmi  pre- 
sente  alia  Commemorazione  che  in  questo  giorno  si  tributa  giusta- 
mente  all'  integerrimo  Cittadino,  al  grande  Artista  Americano. 

11  Nobile  Comitato  di  questa  Commemorazione,  fecemi  I'onore 
d'invitarmi  a  prendervi  parte,  ed  io  accettai  convinto  del  doveroso, 
sebbene  tristo,  ufficio,  di  rendere  con  le  mie  brevi  parole,  un 
modesto  tributo,  a  chi  si  addiceva,  per  ragione  di  eta,  compiere 
per  me,  la  missione  che  oggi  tristamente  eseguisco  per  lui;  e  se 
cosi  fosse  stato,  era  certo  a  vantaggio  della  schiera  Drammatica, 
deir  America  Settentrionale,  che  in  lui,  avrebbe  ancora  il  Faro 
risplendente,  che  con  la  sua  luce  guide  i  naviganti  dell'  Arte,  a 
ricovrarsi  nel  benevolo  e  sicuro  suo  Porto. 

La  traccia  lasciata  nella  storia  Drammatica  da  questo 
illustre,  quanto  benemerito  Artista,  la  potenza  del  tempo 
non  potra  mai  cancellare  come  rimarrano  perenni,  scolpite 
nella  mente  e  nel  cuore  dei  contemporanei  come,  dei  futuri, 
le  doti  elevate  e  generose  dell'  animo  suo.  Certo,  fu  un  giorno 
di  lutto  Nazionale  la  sparizione  di  tanto  uomo,  e  tutto  dovettero 

53 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

provnrne  quel  cordoglio,  che  opprime  I'anima,  allorquando 
si  perde  un  caro  congiunto.  Simile  a  quegli  alberi  immani 
che  la  mano  dell'  uomo  recide,  peresporle  all'  ammirazione  del 
mondo,  oggi,  noi  esponiamo,  sebbene  pallidamente,  le  virtu  del 
grande  artista,  di  cui,  I'implacabile  Natura,  pote  falciare  la  vita,  ma 
non  mai  torleil  fascinoimperitiviodella  stimabile,  universale  ricor- 
danza. 

Fra  le  dolci  compiacenze  della  mia  carriera  artistica,  mi  seduce 
quella  d'essermi  afratellato  con  attori  di  diversa  favella  della 
mia  ma  piu  che  tutte,  annovero  e  vanto  la  soddisfazione  d'essere 
stato  compagno  (sebbene  per  breve  tempo)  a  Edwin  Booth.  In 
quella  fausta  ricordanza  si  consolido  I'estimazione  che  gia  da  tempo 
nutrivo  per  lui,  e  potei  convincermi  ed  affermarmi  che  se  il  Genio  lo 
accompagnava  come  Artista,  I'educazione,  la  coltura,  e  il  delicato 
e  retto  sentire,  mai  lo  abbandonarono  come  uomo.  A  buon  dritto 
egli  godeva  dell'  amore  de  suoi  Concittadini  ;  a  buon  dritto  si  af- 
fidava  nella  simpatia  e  rispetto  de'  suoi  compagni  d'Arte  ai  quali 
fu  prodigo  di  consigli  d'ammaestramenti,  e  di  generose  offerte, 
dedicando  ad  essi  il  Players  Club  come  prova  manifesta  dell'  af- 
fetto  che  sempre  nutri  per  I'Arte  e  per  i  suoi  sacerdoti. 

Edwin  Booth  fu  artista  gentiluomo  !  Lungo  e  superfluo  sareb- 
be  il  ricordare,  la  serie,  non  breve,  e  sempre  felice,  delle  sue  im- 
personificazioni,  che  lo  fecero  salire  all'  alto  seggio  della  Fama, 
restando  egli  sempre,  modesto,  gentile,  ed  affettuoso. 

Boston,  la  citta  intellettuale,  ne  conservagelosamente  lasalma; 
e  qui,  in  New  York,  ov'  egli  mori,  nello  splendido  ritrovo  ch'  egli 
leg6  a  suoi  compagni,  vi  si  respira  il  profumo  delle  sue  virtu. 
Nella  camera  ove  i  suoi  occhi  si  chiusero  per  sempre,  e  che  con 
lo  devote  e  squisita  deliberazione,  si  conserva  intatta  come  al  mo- 
mento  della  sua  morte,  in  ogni  ogetto  rivive  il  suo  sguardo  pene- 
trante,  palpita  il  cuor  suo  e  sembra  che  la  sua  mano  stringa  con 
effusione  in  segno  di  riconoscenza  la  mano  di  coloro  che  religios- 
amente  visitano  il  santuario  del  grande  Artista.      Questa  fu  I'im- 

54 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

pressione  da  me  provata;  questa  e  I'impressione  che  sentiranno 
tutti  quelli,  che  come  me,  stimarono  ed  amarono  Edwin  Booth. 

Ed  era  ?  Melpomene  e  Talia  lo  accolsero  nel  loro  Tempio  ;  Es- 
chilo,  Euripide,  Sofocle,  Menandro,  Plauto,  e  Terenzio  lo  circon- 
dano;  Shakespeare  gli  stringe  la  mano!  La  Pleiade  dei  grandi 
Attori  che  furono  lo  abbracciano  fraternamente;  e  mentre  Esso, 
nei  cieii,  gioisce  della  Gloria  che  lo  circonda,  e  per  la  quale  dedico 
la  sua  vita,  noi  qui  si  piange  ?  L'aposteosi  degl'  illustri  non  si 
piange  ne  s'invidia  !  Si  cerca  d'emularla  !  E  un  audace  pen 
siero — ma  e  pur'  anco  un  nobile  sentimento  ! 


55 


V 
TRANSLATION  OF  SIGNOR  SALVINI'S 

Zt)t}VtSS 

READ  BY  HENRY  MILLER 

IXTY  years  are  fulfilled  to-day  since  the  birth  of  a  great 
heart  and  a  great  mind.  To-day,  five  months  and  six 
days  have  passed  since  that  mind  and  that  heart  were 
stilled  in  the  death  of  Edwin  Booth.  In  days  gone  by  1  did  not 
foresee  that  I  should  be  present  at  the  commemoration  which  to- 
day so  justly  honors  the  citizen  of  integrity,  the  great  artist  of 
America. 

The  distinguished  committee  in  charge  of  this  commemora- 
tion did  me  the  honor  to  invite  me  to  take  part  in  it,  and  I  ac- 
cepted, satisfied  that  it  was  my  duty,  even  if  a  sad  one,  to  render 
in  a  few  words  my  modest  tribute  to  one  who  ought  rather,  if 
age  be  considered,  to  have  done  for  me  the  office  which  1  to- 
day mournfully  execute  for  him.  And  if  it  had  been  so,  it 
would  certainly  have  been  to  the  gain  of  our  dramatic  band  of 
North  America,  which  in  him  could  still  possess  the  resplendent 
beacon  whose  light  served  to  guide  the  navigators  of  our  art  to 
the  kindly  and  secure  shelter  of  their  haven. 

The  ravages  of  time  will  never  efface  the  mark  traced  in  dra- 
matic history  by  this  artist,  as  illustrious  as  he  was  worthy;  and 
the  lofty  and  generous  endowments  of  his  soul  will  remain  pe- 
rennial, engraved  in  the  minds  and  hearts  not  only  of  his  admir- 
ers but  of  those  to   come.     Surely  the  death  of  such  a  man 

56 


!N   MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

brought  a  day  of  national  mourning,  and  all  must  have  felt  that 
heartache  which  oppresses  the  soul  when  a  loved  relative  is 
lost.  Like  those  huge  trees  which  are  exhibited  to  the  admira- 
tion of  the  world,  we  show  to-day,  even  in  a  weak  portrayal, 
the  virtue  of  this  great  artist.  Implacable  nature  has  indeed  had 
the  power  to  cut  short  his  life,  but  not  to  take  from  him  his  im- 
perishable crown  of  universal  esteem  and  remembrance. 

Among  the  sweetest  pleasures  of  my  dramatic  career  none  is 
more  sweet  than  this,  that  1  have  enjoyed  fraternal  relations  with 
actors  of  a  different  tongue,  and,  highest  of  all,  1  count  and  boast 
the  satisfaction  of  having  been  the  companion,  even  for  a  brief 
peribd,  of  Edwin  Booth.  In  this  time  of  happy  recollection  the 
esteem  which  I  had  long  cherished  for  him  became  established, 
and  I  had  opportunity  to  observe  that  while  Genius  attended 
him  as  an  artist,  refinement,  culture,  delicacy  and  right  feeling 
were  never  absent  from  him  as  a  man.  With  good  reason  he 
enjoyed  the  love  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  confided  in  the  sym- 
pathy and  respect  of  his  comrades  on  the  stage,  to  whom  he 
was  a  miracle  of  good  counsel,  of  masterly  teaching  and  of 
liberality;  to  whom  he  dedicated  the  Players'  Club  as  a  con- 
spicuous proof  of  his  enduring  affection  for  his  art  and  for  its 
interpreters.  Edwin  Booth  was  as  truly  gentleman  as  artist.  It 
would  be  tedious  and  superfluous  to  enumerate  the  long  list  of 
his  uniformly  felicitous  impersonations.  They  raised  him  to  the 
lofty  throne  of  Fame ;  but  he  always  remained  modest,  courteous 
and  loving. 

Boston,  the  intellectual  city,  jealously  guards  his  clay,  and 
here  in  New  York,  where  he  died,  in  the  beautiful  meeting- 
place  which  is  his  legacy  to  his  companions,  we  breathe  the 
perfume  of  his  virtue.  In  the  room  where  his  eyes  closed  for- 
ever, and  which,  in  execution  of  a  laudable  and  delicate  thought, 
is  preserved  intact  as  at  the  moment  of  his  death,  in  every  object 
his  keen  glance  lives  again,  his  heart  pulsates,  and  it  seems  as  if 

57 


IN    MEMORIAM — EDWIN    BOOTH 

his  hand  warmly  and  gratefully  pressed  the  hand  of  him  who 
with  religious  respect  seeks  the  sanctuary  of  the  great  artist. 
Such  was  the  impression  experienced  by  me,  such  is  the  impres- 
sion which  all  will  feel  who,  like  me,  esteem  and  love  Edwin 
Booth. 

And  now  ?  Melpomene  and  Thalia  have  welcomed  him  to 
their  shrine,  y^schylus,  Euripides,  Sophocles,  Menander,  Plau- 
tus,  Terence  surround  him.  Shakespeare  holds  his  hand. 
The  constellation  of  great  artists  of  the  past  welcomes  in  him  a 
new  luminary;  and  while  he  in  the  skies  rejoices  in  the  glory 
which  envelopes  him,  and  to  which  he  devoted  his  life,  shall  we 
here  weep  ?  The  apotheosis  of  the  illustrious  gives  occasion  not 
for  tears  but  for  envy!  Let  us  strive  to  emulate  it!  The  thought 
is  audacious,  but  the  aspiration  is  noble ! 


s8 


VI 

:aiiDress 

HENRY   IRVING 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: 

i^^I  ESTEEM  it  a  very  great  privilege  to  be  here  to-day  and 
'*J||     to  be  permitted  to  take  part  in  the  proceedings  which 
^^^     have   been   ordained   to   do   honor  to    the    memory   of 
Edwin  Booth. 

I  think  I  must  be  among  the  oldest  of  his  friends,  for  more 
than  thirty  years  ago,  when  beginning  to  make  my  way  as  an 
actor,  and  in  the  days  of  stock  companies,  I  played  with  Edwin 
Booth  an  engagement  of  some  weeks  in  the  city  of  Manches- 
ter. I  was  the  Bassanio,  Laertes,  Cassio,  Wellborn  and  Wilford 
and  many  other  characters  to  his  Shylock,  Hamlet,  Othello, 
Sir  Giles  Overreach,  Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  etc.  He  was  the  star 
which  floated  across  our  horizon,  bright,  brilliant,  buoyant,  alert, 
full  of  vigor  and  fire  and  genius.  An  example  to  young  actors, 
and  one  who  seemed  to  show  us  something  of  the  great  traditions, 
the  genius  of  which  he  inherited  and  the  art  of  which  he  had 
learned  from  his  great  father.  From  that  time  we  were  friends, 
and  it  was  a  pride  as  well  as  a  pleasure  to  me  when,  twenty 
years  after  that  time,  I  had  the  honor  of  supporting  him  in  my 
own  theatre.     Edwin  Booth  has  done  much  for  his  art  and  much 

59 


IN   MEMORIAM — EDWIN   BOOTH 

for  the  players,  and  there  shall  be  no  sweeter  memento  of  his  ten- 
der, affectionate  nature  than  the  home  which  he  made  in  this  city 
for  the  brothers  of  his  craft — except  the  high  place  which  he 
holds  for  all  time  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  and  of  all  those 
who  love  and  work  for  the  player's  art. 

"  When  musing  on  companions  gone 
We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone." 


60 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewS  '  ^' 

REC^D-t^ 


OCT  1  4 1982 

~~           ' 

RECEIVED  B\ 

— 

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ClHOJUTIObUJga 

> 

— Ii£iI.^J985, 



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University  of  Californis 


